wallflower

Sometimes, I dream about moving to a foreign city, with hidden streets and secrets woven into the plaster. I intertwine my fantasy with the memories of Europe I have tucked away in my mind. Slipping in and out of shops and wandering the cobblestoned paths with no particular destination. Walking about, seeing but not being seen; just watching the masses of people going about their daily business. People fascinate me.
My favorite cafe in Paris is the one in Montmartre, the pastries and breads lined up artfully behind the shiny glass. Sitting at a little table with a buttery, flaky pain au chocolat and frothy cafe au lait, I'd rest my feet and record my observations. I'd gather up my notebook and camera to explore and wander some more, then head back to my little flat to sit on the roof and watch the sun set, only to repeat it all over again the next day.

It sounds terribly romantic, does it? Simply being an observer of life? Because sometimes being a wallflower in a bustling city sounds so tempting.